The Gentlemen's Club Ch. 03

Sarah stopped moving and held her head perfectly still.

Finished, penis deflated and empty of seed, her husband roughly pushed her away by the shoulders before pulling his blankets up and wrapping himself thoroughly. He flailed his feet towards her, forcing her to move.

To leave.

Tired, depressed, and disappointed beyond measure, Sarah returned to her cot and, having wiped her mouth with a rag, fell into fitful sleep. All night, a man's organ ravaged her mouth, plunging relentlessly back and forth—sometimes it was Master Collins, and sometimes it was her husband.

No matter—the shame was always the same.

*

The next day, Robert acted as if nothing had happened, conducting himself cordially. He went to work, came home, ate, and prepared for bed as he always did.

However, after all the days chores were finally done, after she crawled into her cot, she heard him shuffle around and slip from his bed. She assumed he was going to relieve himself in the aft chamber pot until she heard his bare feet plodding in her direction. Looking up, she saw him standing over, his penis dangling from the hole in his night pants.

"I think we've established you know what to do with this," he said onerously, hands on hips. "This wickedness must be emptied from your personage. Perhaps after tonight it won't be necessary again."

Dumbstruck Sarah didn't move, only stared as his penis began to lengthen and list to the side, rising on its own in preparation. Within seconds it stood straight up, a small fierce red-tipped baton.

"On your knees, then," he said in a voice full of judgment and condemnation. "You know what to do."

As Sarah went to her knees, she wondered just what she had gotten herself into.

*

As she sucked, Sarah knew that Robert was speaking but she was able to successfully tune most of it out. A few words—disappointment, despair, trollop—reached her ears, words that would have given her pause if she didn't see, hanging at his sides, her husbands tightly curled fists.

His fingers flexed in time with her motion. When she held him firmly in her gullet his hands clenched very tightly; when only the tip rested between her lips, his fingers relaxed and hung open. They repeated this dance, flex, relax, flex, and relax, until quite suddenly his hands boxed her ears.

"Drink it! Thirsty whore, drink! DRINK!" he growled.

This time the semen was almost hot, a blazing sensation of blasted throat as it pumped nearly straight down into her stomach.

Sarah, dutiful, stop moving her head and swallowed.

Two days ago, this had been the furthest thing from her mind. She had envisioned a mutual exploration of their matrimonial bonds, a path to eventual childrearing. This… this was something altogether different. At least, she told herself, head hung as he pulled his night pants over himself, he's going out of town in the morning.

*

Her husband left first thing the next morning; of course, she had arisen and ensured all preparations for his departure were attended to. After a perfunctory parting, where he failed even to embrace her—"Goodbye, Sarah," he'd said, vague finality in his words—he unceremoniously stepped through the door, pulling it to without a look back.

Mind agape with thought, Sarah took the rest of the day to ponder her circumstance. She had a lot to think about.

I know why I have no children was her first thought, followed almost immediately by I am not a wife! Could a woman married so long without consummation consider herself married? Had not the Lord said, "Go forth and multiply"? She wasn't sure who was to blame—her husband, who had so fully abandoned and ignored his Biblical command, or herself for lacking the knowledge to realize the slight in the first place? Was such a statement, "Go forth and multiply," even one so contained in the Holiest of Documents, tantamount to "Fuck off!"? That thought, incorporating a term so crass, sent her into depths of deepest shame, causing a searing blush that gave her heat such that she might fill a bucket with perspiration.

I married Robert in the church, she reasoned. Of COURSE he's my husband! And proudly so! Even as she thought it, the nebulous nature of their marriage failed to crystallize. Is something wrong with me? she wondered, not for the first time since realizing she was still possessing of her Virtue. How else to explain his neglect?

As she lay on her husband's bed, whiling away the hours lost in transitive thought, her mind raced from scenario to scenario, concocting elaborate explanations for why she was in such a marriage, for why her husband had neglected her so, for why she had no children.

For why, at this rate, she would never bear ANY children!

Sarah couldn't help the tears that came. It seemed she was at a crossroads of sorts; upon realizing she had never been made a proper wife, had she not deigned to take matters in hand, as it were? To make things right?

Did I not try hard enough? she asked, eyes cast to the ceiling. What else must I do?

A sudden pounding on the door interrupted her private, unspoken conversation.

"BANG! BANG! BANG!"

Sarah stood, flattened her plain brown ankle-length work dress and walked towards the door warily. The last thing she expected was a visitor; the last thing she wanted was a solicitor; the last thing she needed was bad news.

The last person she expected to see through her cracked doorway was Jennifer, Mr. Winthrop's, ah, companion.

"Sarah?" Jennifer asked, shifting back and forth nervously. "Mr. Brown, 'e's askin' for ya. At the Visum. Said you'd wanna come."

At mention of Mr. Brown, Sarah couldn't the skip of her heart, the near instant pounding beneath her breast.

Douglas Brown, in her whole life the only man who had spoken to her (however briefly) as an equal. The only man who had ever apologized for wronging her.

Douglas Brown wanted to see her.

"Said urgent like," Jennifer added, hands clasped behind her back.

"Sure, alright then. Just let me change—"

"Now," Jennifer breathed, looking around quickly, "we need to go now."

Sarah nodded, retrieved her small hand purse, and followed Jenny to the carriage, noting with irritation the presence of the very coarse men who had come for her the first time she traveled to The Visum. If she had paid any closer attention, she would have realized how keenly the carriage men stared upon her, as if they could see beneath her heavy clothing. If she had noticed, perhaps she would have paused to consider getting into the carriage.

Perhaps.

Nevertheless she entered the horse drawn carriage, welcoming this respite from the day's tortured evaluation of her troubled marriage. She quite looked forward to conversing with Mr. Brown, an adult conversation about any manner of things devoid of kneeling or squatting or spreading.

In her mind Sarah was sure of Mr. Brown's motivations—or, perhaps more accurately, his lack thereof.

Sarah settled in for an hour and a half's rickety journey.

THE VISUM

The journey passed without exchange of a single word between the two women. The drivers made good time, taking just over an hour before they rolled up outside the gentlemen's club.

Jennifer, having quickly exited the coach, nearly ran to The Visum entrance and disappeared through the doors, the doorman waving her through expansively.

Sarah, on the other hand, approached much more cautiously, mind ablaze with possibilities. For the moment, all thought of her husband and the state of her marriage were shoved aside as she pondered (not without a small pang of guilt, it should be noted) what exactly Mr. Brown had in store tonight. She certainly believed him to be a man of his word, at this point; he had made it abundantly clear that no other demands would be made of her.

The doorman stood at attention just outside The Visum's entrance as Sarah warily approached. She was aware that certain protocols were to be followed whilst at The Visum; still, in this particular situation, unescorted, it was altogether unclear exactly what was expected. At any rate, this was not a circumstance where Sarah was a typical "guest" (whatever that was) and she felt no obligation whatsoever to follow anyone around, to be put through her paces. She was meeting up with Mr. Brown for what, she was sure, would soon be a deep conversation about her husband's increased responsibility (and concordant pay), an apology for past transgressions, that sort of thing. Sarah was no lapdog tonight—

—never again.

She walked through the door, pulling her nondescript dress up slightly as she crossed the threshold. This time she was determined to have a good look around, to see exactly what kind of place Dus Aliter Visum was.

Sarah realized immediately the unparalleled opulence with which she was surrounded—worked cherry tables, inlaid chairs lined with silver, elaborate trim running at both floor and ceiling levels—opulence that starkly contrasted how very plain she must look, wearing what amounted to nothing more than a mere servant's dress with dirty, worn shoes and hair pulled aside with a pin.

The Dining Room's extravagant décor was exaggerated tonight by how very deserted it was, with only a single occupied table in the far corner—in Mr. Brown's corner—though the lighting was subdued such that the man sat back away from the table, nondescript. Sarah gazed around the walls, absorbing the various paintings, portraits and landscapes, before stepping across the room towards Mr. Brown's table.

"You like them?" a deep, rumbling voice called from the table.

Startled, Sarah jumped slightly and paused. That's not Mr. Brown, she thought, a bolt of pure terror running down her spine. It was as if her body were suddenly void of any volition, a rag doll standing lifeless, waiting for its owner to determine what her arms and legs should do.

"I do believe I asked you a question," the voice added, its owner leaning forward into the flickering candlelight.

Sarah was too shocked to respond.

"Personally, I could care less what hangs on the walls here," Thaddeus Collins said, "although I fully expect an answer to my question."

Sarah nodded quickly. "Yes," she said, mind reeling, "I like them." What is he doing here? WHERE IS MR. BROWN?

"Sarah," Collins said, chuckling softly, "the pleasantries must be observed. You haven't forgotten so quickly, have you, how to conduct yourself?"

"No… no, sir," she answered, a familiar, uncomfortable knot forming in the pit of her stomach. This couldn't be happening…

"Sit," he said, remaining seated.

Sarah looked around quickly before slowly stepping forward. She did not immediately sit down but instead stood behind the chair opposite Collins, holding the back. She noted that the table was empty save a single glass of water, half empty (or half full, as it were) at Mr. Collins' hand. She observed his fingers, thick as sausages, close around the glass and lift so that he took a big swig, spilling water from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. He lowered the glass, wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand in the process. His hands were simply enormous.

Sarah stood stock-still. She couldn't figure out why she was here, where Mr. Brown was, or why he had permitted her to be alone with this… this MAN. Her brow furrowed, small lines of doubt crossing her forehead as she concentrated on trying to figure this out—

—on trying, the hardest she had ever tried anything, to avoid thinking about what exactly Mr. Collins' intentions were.

She was somewhat less than successful.

"You have a question?" he observed. "Ask it."

Sarah took a deep breath, permission to speak given. (That she should require as much from Thaddeus Collins was a separate matter, one best left to consider another day.) "Mr. Collins, I was given to understand that Mr. Brown requested my presence." She said it very quickly, afraid she would wither into silence under his steady gaze. The way she said it, the words ran almost unintelligibly together.

Collins scratched his head, exaggerating his movements as an actor in a play. He looked around in mock surprise. "I don't see him around. How fortunate for me."

Sarah felt her gaze drawn to him, as if he were a giant masculine magnet she was powerless to resist.

As her brilliant, light blue eyes went to Collins face, she found the same hard, unyielding gray eyes as the son staring back at her. She remembered all too well staring into those nearly same eyes, one on each side of the son's rampant manhood as it slowly entered her mouth weeks before. All color drained from her already pale face, a kind of paralyzing pall falling over. Collins, whose face was up to now expressionless, smiled ever so slightly, clearly amused at the change of demeanor that overtook the poor girl standing before him.

"Remove your hairpin. I'm sure I prefer it down."

"What—what?" she responded.

"Are you deaf?"

"No—no, s-s-sir."

"Well, then."

Sarah's shaking hand went to her head and removed the pin, freeing her thick red hair to fall about her shoulders.

Collins stood and walked over behind Sarah, where he placed his hands on her shoulders.

Sarah tensed her arms, clutching the chair back tightly between whitened knuckles.

"Mr. Collins," she asked, voice unusually high, "where is Mr. Brown?"

"No more questions."

His hands squeezed her shoulders and began massaging in a way Sarah, despite conscious revolt, found her body responding to. He ran his thumbs in tight circles around her shoulder blades, to the outside of her arms, and in the high ridge of Sarah's upper back just below her neck. He rubbed her neck as well, long side to side applications of pressure that released tightened muscle pressure—but in no way relieved the anguish that threatened, any second, to send Sarah into unrestrained hysterics.

Collins leaned in and began whispering in her ear, hands holding her shoulders firmly in place.

"That clerk husband of yours has cost me money—a lot of money." His words, rough-edged and menacing, sent her heart racing as a freight train screaming perilously out of control. "You've cost me a small fortune as well. That son of mine, once seen, had to have you. Still," he added, leaning in even closer and inhaling her essence, "he has very good taste."

They stood silent a moment, he breathing slow and evenly, she rather anxiously. She stood, ram rod straight, waiting.

She had done this her whole life, waited for someone to tell her what to do, what to feel—when to do it, and when not to feel.

"Sarah?"

"Yes, Mr. Collins?" she replied automatically.

"Before this night is through," he said, enormous satisfaction dripping from every syllable, "I shall very much enjoy fucking you."

*

Sarah jumped and tried to run away, but he merely seized one forearm and pulled her to, squeezing mightily and wrenching her to his side. There was no escape.

From there, it was easy enough for him to practically tuck her under one arm and carry her as nothing more than an especially juicy, succulent ham back to the Dessert Room where he nearly tossed her through the door.

As she scrambled off the floor he stepped through, closing and latching the door. One word, "Platform," spoken flatly, was beyond negotiation. By now Sarah knew there was no meeting Mr. Brown tonight—no fancy dinner, comfortable carriage ride, or hours of pleasant conversation beneath a starry sky.

Tonight there was only the Dessert Room, a room that had seemed ever so much bigger the first time she'd been. Now it was a claustrophobic prison, an ever-tightening cell with only a single platform situated in the very center.

"Platform," he repeated, faintly impatient.

She slowly walked towards it, stopping when her knees pressed against the side. Collins followed immediately behind and closed a hand momentarily around her neck before sliding it down to the neckline of her dress.

"Are you, or should it?" he asked, pulling uncomfortably down. The message couldn't be clearer—are you going to take this off or should I remove it forcibly?

Not like this, Sarah thought, shaking her head. Please, not like this. Having only just come into the realization, the last few days, that her Virtue remained, that her husband had never actually completed… completed his… husbandly duties, that her marriage was not consummated, she was not now prepared to give up such a prize to the brute standing behind her.

Collins misread the shaking of her head. "Fine," he muttered, raising his elbow while securing the neckline between his fingers. "We shall do it my way."

"RRIIIIPPPPPP!"

The buttoned collar bit into her neck as Collins yanked viciously down. The worn fabric gave after a slight pause, tearing with a terrific rip and popping off button after button, sending them bouncing across the hard wooden floor. Freed of her shoulders, the dress was shoved down her back and over her shapely hindquarters where it subsequently fell to her feet, leaving her covered in only an immodest shift. He stepped in closely, pressing his chest into her back.

"Arms up," he commanded. Stricken, Sarah failed to comply. "Arms up!" he repeated, helping by pressing her elbows upwards until she held her own arms overhead.

"Now then," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her torso and cupping her very full breasts, one in each hand, "let us just see what we have here."

MR. BROWN

Douglas Brown knocked on the door again, much louder than before. It was dark; an indecent hour to be calling upon a married woman, but there was nothing for it.

He had to see her.

He vividly remembered the first night, taking her to The Visum, when he realized how very unlike her husband Sarah Higgins was. A woman of substance, with striking features and a fierce loyalty that drove her to depths no woman he had yet met could match.

Certainly, she had been taken advantage of. The Collins boy had seen to that. Still, it hadn't seemed right, seeing her knelt before him, worshipping in such a unique and profane manner. He had felt a pang of embarrassment for the poor girl that night.

The following week, visiting her at home, he had almost backed out on the follow-up request. The uproar at The Visum was unprecedented; many members had heard about the performance and approached him, enquiring as to the plump redhead's next appearance. "Are her teats really so large, Douglas?" and "Did she really suck him dry?" were the most common questions. He'd felt obligated to arrange two more visits, so intense was the pressure.

Still, complete impertinence and an utter breach of trust was what those questions were. In hindsight, it was easy to make such a determination.

"What happens at The Visum stays at The Visum."

A mantra long in the making, it seemed some had forgotten and were speaking out of turn; especially grievous was the young woman they were speaking about, a lass he knew to be honorable and, it was true, more than fetching.

The strangest thing had happened: in the midst of being polite to her, of asking a seemingly innocent question, he had quite by accident discovered how very… sweet—yes, sweet was the word—the poor girl was. A genuine young woman possessing of such a regal bearing, who wanted nothing in the world more than to have children and a home to raise them in, should not be subjected to such indignities—no matter how ridiculous or undeserving her husband.

It was one thing for Charles Winthrop to bring his housekeeper; that Jennifer girl had lain with more men than General Sherman marched to Savannah, truth be told. A common whore really, no better than any other of the opportunistic strumpets who made occasional appearances at The Visum. Most of the young women who performed there—Jennifer included—were compensated handsomely for their services.